“Mum, mum, I’m just going to come right out with it…I’m straight.”
“My God!”
Janice crossed herself and burst into tears.
Continue reading “If… by Hugh Cron – Warning Strong Adult Content”
Tag: flash fiction
Sharing by Hugh Cron – Strong Adult Content.
The communal bathroom was a lot cleaner than she thought it would be. This was the first time that she’d been in. She reckoned dust would be more of a problem than shit as everyone must have used their en-suites.
Continue reading “Sharing by Hugh Cron – Strong Adult Content.”
Twelve Weeks by Hugh Cron
Week 1.
You are here now and it is you who calls the shots.
If there is anything you want to talk about, you can.
I see you’re doing very well in English. Miss Patterson is impressed by your story telling. You express yourself very well.
But that’s writing, it’s not real is it?
And even if there is some of you in there, nothing is as powerful as hearing your own voice.
When you are ready…
…Talking is what you need to do
Hey Girl by Frederick K Foote
Mary & the Player
Hey, girl, I got to ask you something. Why was you just with that no account, broke ass, nappy headed, scrawny, low life, little Nigger?
Look at me now. I got money in the bank. I got a brand-new Escalade. I’m pressed and dressed and a Nigger with whom nobody in their right mind will mess. So, why ain’t you over here by my side drinking my liquor and setting in my new ride?
No offense brother man, but you a Nigger with a grasping look of ownership in his eyes. You got that, “I possess you,” bad breath. You got that property-possession funk under your arms and between your legs. You got them, “I’m going to hold you till I break you because I own you,” hands. You look like you want to wear me on your sleeve and wipe your ass with me when you’re through. And you through when you find something new. You just the kind of Nigger I can do without.
Fuck you, ho. I don’t need or want your skank black ass.
You lie. You want me, and your mother and your brother do too. Now, just a word to the wise. One more spiteful word to me from your sassy fat lips and only one of us will walk out this place. Look at me, now. Look at me hard. I’m the Nigger that’s not in her right mind. Try me or deny me. It’s on you.
Happiness by Fernando Meisenhalter
This work is below our minimum word count. However, as we have said before, when something comes in that is just demanding to be published we are perfectly willing to be flexible. We have added our thoughts at the end of the post so that you can see our reasoning. Please feel free to comment – as always we love to know what you think.
Happiness
She has a tattoo on her boobs with something written on it, but I can’t tell if it’s a quote from Marx or César Chávez and the uncertainty is killing me.
“Take a picture,” she says. “It’ll last longer.”
But a camera isn’t the issue, it’s the pronounced curvature.
“Don’t you think tattoos are like bumper stickers for humans?” I say. “It’s like the graffiti that used to be on walls moved on to the skin of people, making it much harder to read.”
She gives me a Frida Kahlo look.
“We’re alone in the universe with only our tattoos to express ourselves; they’re the only thing they can’t take from us. Show some respect.”
I apologize and change the subject, chat about the madness present everywhere and how we’re forced to squeeze a living out of whatever’s left.
“I work in a bar,” she says, “giving hand jobs. I need to get the guys early, while they still have money. It’s hard work. Some are older, and it takes forever, especially if they’re drunk.”
“You must have a strong grip,” I say.
“You can say that,” she says. “But work’s slow nowadays. No one carries cash and everyone’s on antidepressants. It’s like no one can handle happiness anymore.”
“It’s a damn shame,” I say.
“Happiness is in our Declaration of Independence, our Hollywood happy endings, our self-help books. Now it’s Citalopram and Prozac. It depresses me just to think about it.”
And I agree. America’s missing something, something vital. So, we keep lamenting our grim prospects, unpayable student loans, and I wonder how we’ll ever make it through the week, how will we ever survive. It’s an uphill battle, each and every freaking day. And I have no cash, and she has no hope.
~~~~~~~~~~
Diane:
I think it’s a real challenge to draw believable and visible character in such a short word count and that was the main thing that struck me about this piece, and what made me want to see it on the site. Just the very first line about the tattoo gives such a clear glimpse into the character of this woman. This is something with a literary quote on it, something more than just body ornamentation. Then we find more about her, her struggle and her despondency, her strength and confidence. I think the woman is the deeper character here and the narrator a foil for our look at her life.
When you consider that all this is packed into 294 words it is very impressive. It is a social comment of course and if it had simply been that – almost a rant – I wouldn’t have considered it for a moment, but it is a multifaceted story, a tiny slice of two lives which perfectly encompasses the problems of misery and struggle of modern life, mostly in the developed world.
Very clever writing in my opinion.
~~~~
Hugh:
I have just read Diane’s views on this wonderful piece of writing.
The comments and points she makes are concise and well observed.
I can only add, for me, such a small word count only works if it has a cutting point that is perceptive and relevant. This powerful piece of work does all of that superbly well.
If you are going to write under three hundred words, this is the way to do it.
~~~
Nik
I experiment a lot with short pieces – 50 word fiction, drabbles etc. – because I love the challenge of getting depth into a story within the confines of a strict word count. It’s critical in my opinion that you get in two great lines – one to open and one to close – and that you keep it very simple for the rest. This piece opens well, closes well and is just a simple conversation. And yet as a reader I was able to picture the scene, flesh out the characters and feel a sense of hopelessness and despair. Clever stuff.
~~~
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Moving Day by Mary J Breen
It took me over a year to convince my father to move into Riverview Gardens, and now, four months later, it looked like I’d done the right thing. He was eating well, sleeping well, even playing checkers most days with a man from Montreal. As for his dementia, it was no better, but no worse either. And, now that Riverview was in the process of building a new state-of-the-art facility with more space and more light and wonderful things like a pool and a library and a little movie theatre, I felt even more sure that I’d found a good, safe place for my father to live out his days.
Penance by Mary J Breen
Every morning he takes a Post-It, records exactly what she’s wearing, and sticks it on his desk phone. Today it’s “red blouse, green pants, purple sweater.” This way he can tell the police if he has to.
A Matter Of Taste by Hugh Cron
Please be aware – Very strong adult content. Colourful language. May be offensive to some readers.
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Snakes & Lasses by Christopher Stanley
Jock’s folding his pyjamas back under his pillow when he hears it. A low, growling hiss. His twin daughters are elsewhere, probably playing in the walls, so it’s just him and the mannequin dressed as his wife in the bedroom. He’s searching for the source of the noise when the duvet shifts on the bed. It’s a slight movement, like wind-ruffled marram grass, but it’s something. Carefully, he pulls back the covers, revealing the green and yellow-chevroned scales of a king cobra.
February by Nik Eveleigh
Some days bring sunshine. Some bring rain. And somewhere along the line life settles in hard as a February sky. Locks down your dreams tight against the iron earth and dares you to object. For such a short month it exacts a long toll.
A bunch of scientists did an experiment once with fleas. They took half a dozen of the brightest and bounciest, dropped them in a jar and screwed on the lid. For a couple of days those fleas launched themselves into almost continually. Eventually, through pain or weariness or both, they stopped jumping so high. They settled on a spot two thirds of the way up the sides of the jar and that was their limit. Even after the lid came off and they could have bounded their way to freedom those fleas kept right on jumping to a place well below the potential of possibility.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic but if that leaden February sky ever clears I wonder how high I can still jump.
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